


You Don't Even Like Boys

by camerasparring



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Bottom Richie Tozier, Coming Out, Everybody Lives, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Gay Chicken, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mentions of Richie/OMC but not that big of a deal, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie relives his prom in a gay way and Eddie wears a red suit, Sharing a Bed, Slow Dancing, Smut, Valentine's Day, vague gay fundraising events to pad the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22621846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camerasparring/pseuds/camerasparring
Summary: The sign for the event looks significantly different than the invitation.“A Valentine’s dance?” Eddie squeaks at him, grinding his rolly suitcase to a halt.Sure enough, a loopy red cursive “after-auction Valentine’s Day dance” accompanies the ridiculous imagery.Richie wants to laugh - or maybe cry - it’s hard to tell the difference with Eddie staring at him like he personally assigned the theme and bought the tacky heart-shaped balloons to pile into the lobby.“I didn’t… know,” is all Richie can come up with.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 63
Kudos: 585
Collections: IT ❀ Valentine's Day Fic Exchange





	You Don't Even Like Boys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [medusasrevenge (pansexualbeast15)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansexualbeast15/gifts).



> For the Valentine's Challenge, I hope it satisfies the prompt dear requester, also I saw a picture of James Ransone in a [red suit](https://www.gq.com/story/plaid-fall-suits) and wrote this so whoops here you goooo!

If looks could kill, Stanley Uris would be locked up for murder. Victim Richie Tozier, aged forty-redacted. Found dead in his apartment. No discernible signs of forced entry or bodily harm. But the culprit watched it all happen, narrowed in on the screen of an iPad, grimacing like the corpse was still somehow stressing him the fuck out. 

“I am _horrible_ at scheduling, that’s why I asked you to be my manager,” Richie tells him, but Stan just sighs. Patty passes by in the background, so Richie waves.

“Hi Richie, how’s the new place?” she says, but she’s already out of the frame when Richie answers, “Way too big for one person, but I just signed up for Grindr, so.” 

“I don’t think Grindr is going- Richie. What the fuck.” Stan’s voice drops on the last word. Richie’s head hits his kitchen table. 

The clock blinks 11:30. Eddie’s plane leaves in five hours, so he’s probably already at the airport.

Eddie called him this morning, and Richie assumed it was just a friendly Friday morning chat until he was trying to confirm times and that’s when it all fell together. Richie screamed into a pillow for ten minutes and then promptly called Stan.

“Well you have to go,” Stan’s saying when Richie raises his head again. “And you have a plus one.” 

Richie groans. “I know you’re right but I still hate you.” 

“You hate _me_? You’re the one who called me. Beverly is just as capable of-” Richie digs his fingers deep into his eyes. 

“You know that’s not true.” 

Stan clears his throat. “I know.” 

After all, Stan is the one Richie has called, in all of these moments, when he really thought he couldn’t take it anymore. 

Not, like, in a _serious_ way - Richie is enjoying casual sex and new-found “out and proud” fame well enough. Because, of course, when they went back to Derry, Richie had been smacked upside the head with how very _gay_ he is. And then they pulled Eddie out of the house, and it became a double whammy when he also discovered how very much _in love_ he’s been with Eddie for, well, his entire life. 

And it’s made their now-weekly Face-time sessions and their something-other-than-flirty daily banter through text and their total lack of in-person interaction since September really, _really_ difficult. 

Richie misses Eddie with a startling ache. Of course he’s excited about seeing him again, even if he knows it means he’ll have to come clean. Tell him about his big gay crush and get rejected. 

Stan listens to Richie groan and moan about it most days, with mild to minimal complaining.

“I can bring him,” Richie says, staring at the invitation pinned to his fridge. The 9th Annual Los Angeles LGBT Comedians and Entertainers Fundraiser for Equality. Rainbow-printed paper with a shimmery sheen. A little on the nose. 

And so fucking basic. _Equality_? What the fuck does that even _mean_? 

An easy way for white gays to stuff their pockets and make it seem like they’re working toward something. But Brett is still insisting Richie does this shit, for his fucking public image, because coming out looks a whole lot better when you’re rubbing elbows with all the _right_ queers. 

And this is why he wants Stan as a manager instead. But Mr. Uris loves to play hard-to-get.

“You sure?” Stan asks, just as Patty yells, “You could just go stag!”

“That’s the spirit, Patty!” Richie calls back. God, he loves Patty. 

There it is again. The Uris stare. Richie Tozier, time of death: 11:32am. 

“Okay, okay, I’ll call him,” Richie relents. 

“Text me when you’re done.” 

“Yes, dear,” Richie agrees, blowing Stan a kiss and hitting call end. 

He digs his phone out of his pocket and punches at Eddie’s name in his recent calls. 

*

Eddie’s glare is usually deadlier than Stanley’s, and Richie braces himself for it. 

“I mean, a weekend in a swanky hotel might be kind of nice,” is what he gets instead. 

“Are you serious?”

Eddie’s eyes are soft and understanding. Richie pinches his arm, but out of frame, just to make sure. 

“I assume you have a plus one to this thing?”

“Naturally.”

“And you weren’t-” Eddie’s eyes bounce away from the screen, and Richie’s heart clenches. “You aren’t uninviting anyone to bring me, right?” 

Richie scoffs. “You think I had a date lined up?” 

“Well I don’t know!”

 _Maybe you would_ , Richie thinks. _If you didn’t get all dodgy and weird whenever I talk about coming out._

But that would open up all the floodgates, and Richie has an event to bullshit his way through.

Then Richie has another horrible thought.

“Your wife won’t mind you being my date, will she?” 

He winces as soon as it’s out, sounding a little too sincere, and Eddie’s eyes go wide. 

“Will you just pick me up at the airport?” Eddie answers. 

Richie wants to push, but he’s had four cups of coffee and he needs to scour the apartment for evidence of anything… _unsavory_ , so he throws up a grin and winks.

“You bet, bud.” 

“Alright,” Eddie says, shoulders relaxing, “I’ll pack a nice outfit, I guess.”

“You weren’t planning on dressing up for me?” Richie waggles his eyebrows.

Eddie hangs up.

*

Finding Eddie in the airport is a nightmare, but he hugs Richie when he gets in, so Richie spends the next twenty minutes a tingly mess while they search for their Uber. 

Eddie’s all smiles and pink cheeks, and Richie watches him intently while he tells him about the screaming baby on the plane and how nasty the coffee is, and when he makes Richie promise to _never_ drink it, Richie just grins and agrees, because he’s a hopeless lovesick fool, and Eddie is _here_. 

They take the Uber straight to the hotel. 

The sign for the event looks _significantly_ different than the invitation.

For one, it’s covered in hearts. Second, it’s got two dudes holding hands watermarked in the background with some goddamn photo-shopped sunset shit. 

And last but not least, there’s a slight change to the title of the event. But maybe the font is small enough that-

“A _Valentine’s_ dance?” Eddie squeaks at him, grinding his rolly suitcase to a halt.

Sure enough, a loopy red cursive “after-auction Valentine’s Day dance” accompanies the ridiculous imagery. 

Richie wants to laugh - or maybe cry - it’s hard to tell the difference with Eddie staring at him like he personally assigned the theme and bought the tacky heart-shaped balloons to pile into the lobby.

“I didn’t… know,” is all Richie can come up with.

“Yeah, well, that fucking checks out.” Eddie sighs. Richie turns to him, raising his hands in defeat.

“I’m sorry, okay?” He knows that tone of voice, and it’s not good. 

“For what,” Eddie spits, cheek twitching.

“You think I can’t tell when you’re mad at me?” 

Eddie ducks his head, and Richie follows suit to find his eyes. 

“See?” Richie points at the proof, right in the center, where Eddie’s forehead is pinched up. “I knew it.” 

“Did you-” Eddie shifts his feet. Richie brushes an errant streamer from between them. “Did you really forget I was coming?” 

“Eds-”

“Because if this is a fuckin’ pity party invite-”

Richie gestures to the sign. 

“I think we’ve already deduced that it’s a Valentine’s Day party.” Eddie crosses his arms, suitcase forgotten. 

“You’re _really_ okay with me being here?” Eddie asks, for what feels like the millionth time.

It’s not like Richie _forgot_. It’s just that he placed Eddie’s visit into a weird orbit of existence, a place where excitement and nerves are one in the same, never to be touched or considered, and apparently not to be entered into any sort of calendar. 

Plus, Brett fucking blows. He should know by now that Richie needs constant reminders. For useless events. Whose invitations are magneted to his refrigerator. 

Richie grabs Eddie around the shoulders. 

Fuck, his arms are firm. Not a good idea. 

“Of course,” Richie says, and Eddie sinks into his hold. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Eddie smiles up at him. It would be so easy to lean down and kiss him, but Richie shakes it off and blames all the cartoon hearts. 

“Let’s check in,” Eddie says, squirming from Richie’s grip. 

Richie snatches at the handle of his rolling suitcase and books it to the desk, Eddie close on his heels.

*

“I’m so sorry, sir, I only see one room here.”

“You’re kidding me,” Eddie says under his breath.

Richie called Brett to ensure he booked an extra room for the weekend, but Brett’s been getting careless about a lot of shit lately. That is Monday Richie’s problem. 

Right Now Richie fishes a free mint out of the tray in front of him and grins up at the desk clerk.

“Hi, uh-” he finds her name-tag, “Georgette.” 

“People call me Georgie,” she corrects him. Eddie grips him hard around the arm.

“R-right. G- anyway,” Richie says, pushing on, because he’s already fucked up Eddie’s weekend enough, and he’s determined to at least get Eddie a couple good nights of sleep in the swanky hotel they’re putting him up in. 

“Oh! Wait-” Geo- Georgette exclaims, eyes sharp on the computer screen in front of her. “We do have one suite available, it has a fold out, but it is-”

“That’s fine,” Eddie snaps. Georgette holds up a finger.

“Well, sir, it’s-”

“Just put the difference on my card, if it’s a problem,” Richie says, throwing his Am-Ex at her. Brett gave it to him for “business,” and since Brett is forcing him into this, Richie assumes that’s what “business” means. 

“Alright, sir.” Georgette swipes the card and hands them a couple keys. 713. 

“Isn’t that some sort of omen?” Eddie asks him, and Richie’s a little shook from the _Georgie_ incident, so he slaps at the elevator call button and shrugs. 

“With our luck, probably.” 

*

In hindsight, if it’s possible to experience hindsight within a two minute window of time, Richie probably should have known this was coming. 

“No,” Eddie says, simply. 

“This is really decadent, Eds,” Richie says, fingering at the rose petals spread out over the heart-shaped bed. “I think we should treat ourselves.” 

“Who the fuck makes room 713 the honeymoon suite?” Eddie asks him, turning the spout on the giant Jacuzzi on then off, like he’s testing the water pressure, “What kind of spooky hotel from hell is this?”

Richie spread eagles out onto the bed. It’s just as soft as it looks. 

“I can take the pull out,” Eddie says, and Richie turns to see him hovering awkwardly, hands shifting over his room key. “You know, since you paid.”

Richie presses up onto his elbows. “What? No, you can have the bed. It was my mistake.” 

“We’ll figure it out,” Eddie answers, eyes dropping to the velvet red carpet.

“Well,” Richie says, standing up to creep over toward Eddie, six long months stretching between them and yet it feels like almost no time at all, “the meet and greet is tonight.”

“Is that right?”

“You bet your khakis, little man.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and starts to unzip his suitcase. There’s two huge vanities in the room, for some reason, and Eddie loads his clothes into the one on the left. 

“You’re unpacking your clothes?” Richie asks him, staring at his duffel bag. “We’re here for two nights.” 

“Routine is important,” Eddie says. “What time is the meet and greet?” 

Richie checks his phone. “Six.”

“It’s six fifteen.” 

“Good,” Richie says, while Eddie’s suddenly rushing around the room to gather a change of clothes. “Being fashionably late is part of my new gay image.”

*

It’s a drab affair, but Richie finds bacon-wrapped shrimp pretty quickly, and Eddie snags them the last two glasses of champagne from the bar, so they’re slightly buzzed and chowing down by the time they zero in on an empty table. What a team.

“Not very LA to wear a name-tag, is it?” Eddie asks, picking at the corner of his, pressed onto his dark-blue blazer by a smiling blonde named Susan just fleeting moments ago. Richie shrugs.

“Not very gay, either.” Eddie turns to him.

“Why do you keep bringing that up? Not everything here has to be gay,” Eddie says, sipping at his glass. 

“Clearly.” Richie raises his eyebrows. Eddie glares. 

There it is.

“Richie-” 

Richie feels a hand slap onto his shoulder. He turns to see a familiar, flushed face. 

“Thank _god_ you’re here,” Jack says, pulling Richie into a quick hug before gripping him around the shoulders, “I walked in to all these fucking heart balloons and queer love poems tacked to the walls for the ‘history’ and I thought I’d be the only single bastard here.” 

Jack pats him hard on the arm and Richie winces. 

He and Jack had been on the Chicago stand up circuit together in their twenties, but Richie is, by no means, relieved to see him. He’s loud and pushy and not all that funny, but poor, young, closeted Richie had been drawn to him, and maybe, perhaps, given him a sloppy blowjob before Jack fucked him silly in a coat room, but they haven’t really discussed it since, and that was maybe, perhaps, because Richie didn’t really _ever_ discuss his sex life until six months ago. Not with any honesty. 

Richie tries to force a smile. He can still feel Eddie standing behind where Jack has taken him hostage. 

“Sorry I didn’t reach out after your big announcement,” Jack says, eyes turning soft, “I guess we kind of- whoa, wait a minute,” he shifts Richie to see Eddie, eyebrows flicking up his forehead and painting on a wry smile, “you _did_ bring someone, you snake!”

Richie laughs, overwhelmed, then shakes his head.

“It’s not really-”

“Well?” Jack cuts him off, and Eddie takes a step forward. “Are you going to introduce me to the boyfriend or not?” 

Richie gapes, turning to Eddie in a panic, the honeymoon suite and the fucking balloons were already overkill and he’s expecting Eddie to turn on his heel and leave, but then Eddie’s sticking his hand out with a grin. 

“I’m Eddie, nice to meet you,” he says, and Jack takes his hand enthusiastically, jerking it up and down with a creepy little chuckle. 

“You too, you too,” Jack answers. Eddie pulls at the collar of his shirt when Richie looks at him, confused, but then he’s quirking a brow, lips twisting in some sort of challenge, and Richie can practically hear the _What? I’m not gonna tell him first_. 

Richie can play this game. He fucking _invented_ this game, even if he did it unintentionally by spending most of his pre-teen and teen years seeing how far he could push Eddie until he broke. 

The little fucker never did. And now, after six months of compartmentalization in the wake of almost losing each other, Eddie’s _here_ , pinching his forehead and pursing his lips and waiting for Richie to fumble the ball, but Richie’s here for this, baby. He’s not going to give Eddie the fucking satisfaction.

Richie throws an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and gives him a squeeze. 

“Yes indeed, no longer a card carrying member of the Lonely Heart’s Club: Queer Edition, Jacky boy,” Richie says, and then lands a kiss on Eddie’s cheek. 

“I can see that,” Jack says, his cheeks going a little pink. “Good- uh. That’s great, you two!”

Richie almost pulls away when the guilt washes over him. It’s not like he doesn’t understand what it’s like to be single. And pathetic. And unrequitedly in love with your straight best friend. 

Okay, he might be projecting. 

He clears his throat and lets his hand slide down to the center of Eddie’s back, out of sight. 

“You’ll find it someday, man,” Richie says, and it sounds absurd coming out of his mouth. But Eddie’s leaning into his palm and nodding in agreement, and maybe, perhaps, Richie closes his eyes for half a second and pretends it’s real. 

But just, like, _real_ quick. 

*

Turns out, fake-dating Eddie is… really fun. 

They make their rounds, introducing themselves to a whole host of greater-area Los Angeles entertainment and the like. Every time someone assumes they’re together they go along with it, and every time they don’t, Eddie still smiles up at Richie while he makes dumb small talk and laughs when he cracks jokes, and listens to his coming out story three times with glassy, intent eyes before patting him on the back when he’s done.

It clears up a little bit of the burn from the last six months. Eddie’s been supportive about everything else - but he’s constantly clamming up about the gay thing. 

And then a couple of older lesbians there to support their son call them _cute_ and Eddie reaches down to tangle their _hands_ together and Richie almost disintegrates into a pool of jelly on the make-shift dance floor they’re setting up for tomorrow. 

Instead he quickly breaks off and makes his way to the newly re-stocked bar to shot-gun a glass of champagne, spitting out the decorative strawberry into the big bin of trash next to him and gathering up a few more glasses to bring back to Eddie. 

“So.” Eddie takes a glass from him and scans the room. “You and Jack?” 

Richie waves a hand at him. 

“Oh, yeah, but it was nothing. Just a one night kind of thing.” 

“Right,” Eddie says, “are you- was that before last summer?” 

Richie blinks. Why would that matter?

“Long time ago.” 

Eddie nods. Richie drains his second glass. 

“Nothing to worry about, honey-bear.” 

“Didn’t we agree no pet names?” Eddie asks, but he doesn’t look too put-out. Richie laughs. 

“Right as always, sweet cheeks.”

Eddie pours the champagne into his mouth but doesn’t say a word. 

*

At the end of the night, which comes around ten, most of the people they met probably think they’re in some sort of romantic entanglement. Whether that’s dating, fucking, or really-touchy friends-with-benefits (which, _fair_ ), and then that one special couple, Anna and Damon, who assumed they were engaged, and Eddie was in the bathroom, so Richie called an audible and rolled with it. 

Sure, he’s going to hell, but that’s already been a long time coming. 

Now Eddie’s loose-limbed and giggling at some stupid thing Richie said about Cupid’s arrows, and they’ve each had a few drinks, but they’re not _drunk_ , though Richie probably would have made it there if Eddie hadn’t straight-up knocked that fifth drink out of his hand. They stumble down the hallway and through the door of their suite, but Richie catches Eddie before he tumbles to the ground. They’re practically holding each other until Richie breaks away to close the door. 

When he turns back, Eddie’s chest is heaving. 

“That was actually fun,” he says, and Richie could swoon with how perfect he looks, all shiny and happy, blazer rumpled and hair stuck to his forehead. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Eddie this effortless, though the lines on his face crease with content purpose.

“It actually _was_ ,” Richie agrees. Eddie keeps staring up at him, mouth parted in a pant, smile easy.

Richie panics. 

“So should we consummate this thing?” He points to the bed, just to- well. It is heart-shaped. 

The angry lines in Eddie’s face return with a vengeance. 

“Don’t make me beep you,” Eddie says. Richie screws up a grin, and Eddie groans. 

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.” 

“Alright, okay,” Eddie laughs, and Richie feels struck dumb at the possibility that he somehow didn’t ruin this, “I guess I walked into that one.” 

He leans into Richie’s space, laughing in a quiet rumble, both of them barely a few feet into the room, all dressed up with nowhere left to be. Richie reaches out to push at his shoulder, like they’re fourteen and he just wants to touch, except now he’s forty and wants so much _more_. 

“It _is_ the honeymoon suite,” Eddie says low between them. 

Richie freezes. Okay. He can play this game, right? _Right_? 

He squares his shoulders and slurs, fully sober, “Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.” 

Most of the air has already left Richie’s lungs at this point, but they about shrivel up and die when Eddie takes the few steps to close the gap, his fingers hitting first, plucking at the button on Richie’s shirt with idle curiosity. Richie’s watching the movement when there’s a knock on the door. 

It nearly cracks his heart in half. The first thing he registers is Eddie’s big brown eyes, wide and surprised, but there’s not time for much else because of another fucking knock.

Richie whirls on the door and whips it open to see Jack on the other side. 

“Rich!” he yells, throwing his hands in the air. Richie can smell the liquor from a distance, but he can see it, too, written all over the fake smile on Jack’s face and the crooked hang of his jacket. 

Then Richie sees the look in Jack’s eyes. 

“Listen,” Jack stage-whispers, leaning forward, “I know it’s been awhile, and you’re ‘with’ someone,” he flicks up his fingers and yeah, okay, it’s _true_ , but Richie still balks, “but if you ever want to get together just lemme know.”

Jack shoves a small black card into Richie’s hand. His finger reaches to trace a line under Richie’s chin, and Richie’s too slow on the uptake to back away in time. 

“Tell Eddie hi for me,” he says with a wink, then turns to leave. _Eddie_. 

Richie turns back to an empty room. 

“Eddie?” he calls out, then sees the bathroom door closed, the light sneaking from the bottom. 

Eddie doesn’t answer, so Richie sits on the end of the bed, hand still clutched around the black business card that reads, “Jack Gherig, Funny Man.” 

“What the _fuck_ ,” he whispers to himself, trying to fling the card across the room. It loops back in the air, landing at his feet. 

*

When Eddie finally emerges, he’s in a soft pair of sleep pants and a white t-shirt. It took him almost an hour, so Richie springs up from where he’s been watching an old episode of The Office against the headboard. 

“Bedtime?” he asks, though he already figured, and made a lightning quick wardrobe change twenty minutes ago once the alcohol completely wore off. Eddie shoves a pile of his dirty clothes into another drawer. 

“Yeah, I figured, uh.” Richie can see Eddie wiggling his toes against the carpet and even that is fucking cute. “I didn’t know if you’d be here when I got out.” 

Richie’s head feels fuzzy, and maybe he _is_ still drunk, because… what the fuck?

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I be here?” He scoots to the end of the bed, closer to Eddie, who’s making every effort not to look him in the eye. 

“I mean- I wouldn’t have blamed you,” he all but whispers, “he seemed pretty up for it.” 

Richie scoffs, his mind reeling. Eddie thinks he would just- no. _No_. 

“Eds, you think I want-” Richie points out toward the hall, but then realizes that might be a bit too much, wherever the hell that thought was leading him. He sighs. 

“I’m not gonna leave you to sleep in this big bed all alone,” Richie says, and maybe that’s too much as well, but he wants so badly for this game of pretend to go on forever that he’d do basically anything to keep it up. He’ll play it out til the end of time if he gets to spend all that time with Eddie. 

Eddie looks hesitant, so Richie reaches a hand out with a dopey grin. 

“You are so fucking hard to read,” Eddie huffs, slapping Richie’s hand away and crawling onto the bed. Richie barely has a moment to let his brain catch up before Eddie’s snuggled into the pillows, beckoning him with crooked fingers. “Get up here.” 

Richie blinks, and almost asks, _Me?_ before doing what he’s told. 

He presses into his own pillow next to Eddie. 

“Are you-” Eddie starts, and his hand floats between them on the mattress, “are you okay?” 

Uh, no. Richie is lying in bed a good few inches from the love of his life, and fucking _shit_ he’s never really put it like that before, not even in his head, but goddamn, Eddie’s eyes are _gorgeous_ close up and he can feel Eddie’s breath hovering over the sheets and he wants to kiss the rest out of him. 

So, yeah, not okay. But-

“Yeah, yeah, totally fine, why?” 

Eddie narrows his eyes. 

“You came out a lot. To a lot of people,” he says. Richie scoffs. 

“I did that awhile ago, Eds. I think these people knew what I was about.” 

“I _know_ that, dumbass, but this wasn’t Twitter, this was face to face. That’s different,” Eddie tells him, then quieter, “and harder.”

Richie just stares, at a loss. 

Eddie actively avoids these conversations when they’re on the phone. Nods wordlessly at Richie when he talks about his new material on coming out or hints from when they were kids or making other queer friends. Well, acquaintances. Richie is a fucking adult, and making friends is _hard_. 

Gaining six in one fell swoop was a bit of an anomaly. Thank the fucking turtle god for that. 

But Eddie’s motormouth stalls out the worst when he brings up dating. Or, well, sex. Richie isn’t dating anyone until he gets over this. And he probably can’t get over this until he learns how to control his own damn mouth and tell Eddie how he feels. 

So they keep the relationship talk on the no-go list, which, honestly, is fine. Richie hasn’t heard Myra’s name more than three times in the last six months and he is a-ok with that. 

All in all, he’s not prepared for this conversation _ever_ , much less now, next to a heavy-lidded, warm Eddie on a heart-shaped, king-size bed. 

“I’m fine, it went- well.” Richie puts his glasses on the table for a chance to take a breath. Eddie’s nodding when he turns back.

“I thought so,” Eddie agrees. Richie wants to blush. Maybe he does, but all he can focus on is Eddie’s fuzzy silhouette. 

“A lot easier with a nice piece of man-candy on my arm,” Richie says. He reaches out to bop Eddie on the chest. Eddie smiles and bumps his foot into Richie’s. Richie wants to pull him close, but he keeps his distance. He wouldn’t dare mess this up. 

They fall asleep like that, Richie’s foot still tucked under Eddie’s. 

*

“Oh what the _fuck_ ,” Richie says when Eddie finally comes out of the bathroom. They’ve been here less than twenty four hours and Richie could swear Eddie’s spent half his time in there. 

But, uh, _perhaps_ Richie should be less critical, considering this last lengthy bout resulted in, well, what will probably be the topic of Richie’s absurdly-delayed wet dreams for the next few months at least. 

“What?” Eddie asks, flushing, like he _doesn’t know what_. 

“That suit,” Richie says, eyeing him up and down, subtlety a lost cause, because, again, what the _fuck_. “You know what, and the what is that suit.” 

Eddie glances down. “Oh.” 

It’s a deep red plaid suit, checkered in black, finished with a jet black tie, and Eddie’s eyes spin chocolate brown right below where his dark hair is slicked up and clean on the sides. The suit fits him like a glove. A white shirt stretches across his chest and peeks out from the ends of his cuffs. Eddie shoves his hands in the pants pockets and Richie suddenly feels very under-dressed in a simple black suit. 

But then he cracks a smile, wheedling his way across the room to stand across from Eddie. 

“You _knew_ it was Valentine’s Day,” Richie sing-songs. Eddie waves a hand at him, and Richie crowds in closer, feeling bold from a whole day together. 

The main fundraising event, the _dance_ , starts in fifteen minutes, complete with an open bar and silent auction, so they had the whole day to mess about the city until it was time to get dressed. 

Eddie was already awake and finishing up scrambled egg whites when Richie fell out of sleep this morning, and when he shoved a plate of french toast and black coffee across the table and smiled, Richie found himself pretending again, and damn if it wasn’t the easiest thing in the world.

The Broad was way too crowded and neither of them were visiting Disney anything, so they mostly passed the time walking around the city and chatting. Eddie told him about quitting his job and looking for something new, and Richie told him about the best places to live in LA, and pretended they could forget he was married. Richie managed a table for brunch and Eddie ribbed him for using his clout, but then paid for the meal. Eddie held the door open for him once they wandered their way back to the hotel, and Richie’s fingers itched to hold his hand while they waited for the elevator to take them up to the suite. 

The whole day has been a labor of lust and frustration for Richie, and now Eddie’s blushing his way across the room, dodging Richie’s grabby hands, because a man can only take so much before he snaps. 

“Hey, you don’t look so bad yourself,” Eddie says, ducking behind the desk in the corner, and it works to stop the chase. Richie pulls an Eddie and stares down at his own suit. 

“It’s pretty basic,” he says, though he’s been told he pulls it off. He’s had to attend his fair share of these events as of late. Eddie comes up to straighten his tie, like he hasn’t been running around to avoid getting too close. Richie almost lets his hands fall to Eddie’s hips. 

But they aren’t downstairs yet. Then maybe he can touch Eddie all he wants. 

“We ready to go?” Richie asks, suddenly impatient. Fuck his gay image, he wants to get to this party _early_. Eddie grins, tipping his head. 

“You never could take a compliment.” He smooths a hand down the center of Richie’s tie. He must notice that Richie’s stopped breathing, but he doesn’t say anything, just flits his brown eyes over Richie’s. 

“Then, well. Um.” Okay, so he has a point. “Thank you.” 

Eddie opens his mouth and closes it, licks his lips then shakes his head. Richie desperately wants to know what’s happening in that brain of his, but he’s also being uncharacteristically silent. He’s also brilliantly beautiful in that suit, and Richie makes a note to brag about him to the crowds of gays downstairs, where he’s safe under the guise of the game. Eddie laughs, high and tight, then walks right past Richie to the door. 

“Off to the dance!” His voice is strained and shaky, and Richie is very confused, but Eddie’s heading in the right direction, so he follows him anyway.

*

Once they make it to the party, sans name-tags this time, thank god, nobody needs to ruin Eddie’s devastating suit with adhesive, whatever weird mood Eddie was in upstairs has faded. He gets them drinks and finds their table. He _introduces_ himself as Richie’s boyfriend to the seat-mates they don’t already know, and he uses the _word_ boyfriend, and Richie tries not to swallow his tongue. 

Eddie keeps smiling up at him and grabbing at his arm, keeps leaning into his space while he’s talking. They’ve always stuck close, but something about this game makes Richie prickly, his suit too tight and his skin too sweaty. Luckily the bartender agrees to pour him a shot of whatever’s behind the bar. 

Richie waited the whole day for this, being Eddie’s fake-boyfriend again, but now that he’s in it, it’s… overwhelming at best.

After all, this isn’t real. They’re going to make it through this thing and then go their separate ways again. Eddie will go back to his wife, and Richie will go back to having meaningless sex, and he’ll try not to spend every night imagining Eddie’s foot is pressed to his own, just so he can finally get another good night’s sleep.

Richie’s a little tipsy once they open the silent auction. Eddie follows him around whispering suggestions for bids and never bids on a single thing himself.

“We bid on that one, too!” Eddie yells across the table after the dessert is served. 

“Fuck yeah, dude, I’ve never been on a cruise,” Tabby says, a young person Eddie has already befriended. Screw the turtle, Eddie picks up friends like nobody’s business. And no wonder, with jokes and a hot-shot suit, he’s a fucking charmer. 

“Yeah, me- us neither, right?” Eddie turns to Richie, who realizes with a start that Eddie wanted it to look like they were bidding together. Like a couple. 

Tabby’s watching him from over the expensive rainbow-roses centerpiece, and Eddie raises an eyebrow at him. It’s challenging yet again, but Richie can’t really do this right now. Maybe that means he loses the game, he’s not quite sure, but then he hears the music start up and sees people pushing tables off the floor to clear it for dancing and he stands up awkwardly. 

“I have to- I’m gonna get a drink before they close down the bar,” he says. Eddie twitches in his seat like he might follow along, but Richie doesn’t hang back to see if he does, and once he gets to the bar, he’s alone. 

It takes one flute of champagne, another unidentified shot, a self-contained pep talk and three strawberries to get Richie’s breathing back to normal. He steals another flute to bring back to Eddie, who’s now up and swaying next to Tabby, both of them on the edge of the dance floor. There’s a few people testing the waters, but the music is a little dated. The shit they used to play at high school dances when Richie was still attending.

He used to sweat and fret at those things, too, watching Eddie stag across the gym, sending a prayer up to whoever was listening that one of the lanky teen girls didn’t approach him to dance. The jealousy burned deep when they eventually did, because Eddie was a _cute_ fuckin’ teen, but Richie always left before he had to witness it, and Eddie never made it a point to brag about it later because he was a good kid. 

Richie’s pretty sure most of the girls here aren’t interested, but maybe some of the guys are, and Richie feels a spike of fear at the thought of having left Eddie alone at the beginning of dancing hours, especially looking like _that_. He takes quicker steps toward where Eddie is lightly twisting his hips but stops when he hears Eddie’s conversation with Tabby. 

“You were married?” they’re asking him. Richie’s a little relieved - maybe they’ve finally been found out and this can all end.

Eddie laughs, ducking his head. “Yeah, until fairly recently.” 

What the f-

“Wow, and you and-” Tabby gestures to him. Eddie nods.

“Yeah, I kinda, uh,” Eddie punches out another laugh, and Richie’s not that far away, he can see the shade of pink turning at Eddie’s neck, but _his_ whole body feels like it’s gone up in flames. 

“I left when I realized I was gay,” Eddie says, then, “and Richie was what made me… realize.” 

“Wow, that’s-” is all Richie hears before his mind collapses, alarm bells, static, whale sounds, all that jazz. His legs almost give out so he throws his hands in the air to balance himself, but all that does is get Eddie’s attention. 

“Richie-” he says, eyes blown to half the size of his face, all the lines smoothed out in surprise. Richie just gapes at him because most of his face is numb, but his legs are working again, so he turns and _sprints_ toward the bathrooms. 

Because he’s _mature_.

*

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Eddie’s saying outside the bathroom stall Richie has locked himself into, because this is a dance, and he never had a meltdown in a bathroom at one of these things, he just went into the parking lot and smoked, so, wild oats, and all that. 

“I don’t _get it_ ,” Richie says back, perched over the toilet, “I don’t get how you never thought to mention you were getting a fucking _divorce,_ Edward.” 

“I know,” Eddie says. There’s a thunk against the door and Richie’s not sure if it comes from Eddie’s fist or forehead. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Eddie groans. “Can you just come out here so we can talk about this?”

“No,” Richie says, shaking his head. “I’m making my date coax me out of the stall like we’re in a John Hughes movie.” 

“Jesus,” Eddie sighs. Richie crosses his arms while his mind runs. Eddie really left his wife? Is that why he’s thinking about leaving New York? Why he quit his _job_? Richie feels stupid for not asking more detailed questions. And he’s-

“And you’re fucking _gay_?” 

Eddie goes quiet for a minute, and Richie wants to walk it back, but he’s still stuck on the fact that he’s been working himself into a fucking lather for six months, thinking Eddie could maybe _hate_ him, or not be okay with him being gay, and to hear what he just heard is sending him on a fucking trip around the goddamn moon of his own sanity.

“Please don’t say it like that,” Eddie says softly.

“Eds-”

“I was planning on telling you in person! On this fucking trip!” Eddie starts saying, not so softly anymore, “But then you had an event, and you had to be vulnerable around all these people and it felt really fucking… selfish.”

Richie wants to cry. “When did you-”

“Always,” Eddie answers, quick. “I always knew, I think.”

“Yeah.” Richie knows what he means. But that doesn’t explain why Eddie would think it’s okay to lie about… about it being about _Richie_. 

Richie already felt like they were going too far, but that’s the icing on the dysfunctional cake.

Plus it kinda fucking hurts. 

“I wanted to tell you so many times, you have no idea,” Eddie says, mouth visible through the gap in the stall door. Music floats in from the ballroom, the opening bars to Can’t Fight This Feeling, and Richie almost laughs. 

“I could have, like, I don’t know, supported you, or something.” It’s a stumbling offer, but he sees Eddie’s smile. 

“You did anyway,” he says, shyly. 

Richie wants to tell him. Now is the time, right? While they’re being open and honest. But he lets it float too long, stuck in his throat and heart, and then Eddie heaves a breath and Richie sees his feet disappear from under the door. 

“Eddie?”

Richie finally stands up, worried Eddie has left, but then he hears him clear his throat. 

“Will you come out of there if I promise you a slow dance?” he asks. 

Richie swallows hard and unlocks the door. 

*

The same song is still playing by the time they’re standing across from each other on the dance floor. Richie opens his arms and Eddie fits between them, quite perfectly, but Richie’s brain is still too jumbled to appreciate it. It doesn’t feel like everything has been cleared up. But then Eddie reaches to lace their fingers together, and _then_ he brings them, clasped tight, to press between where their chests are swaying along, and all the words disappear. 

They spend far too long wordlessly tilting back and forth to the music. Richie tries to look anywhere but Eddie’s eyes, but they draw him in, swirling with specks of reflection from the strung up fairy lights, unblinking under Richie’s gaze. He wonders if this is what it felt like to be one of those teenage girls, caught pressed against Eddie, the thrill of an accepted invitation thrumming through their veins. He supposes he’ll never know, but if this is the closest he ever gets, he’ll call it good.

Eddie leans his head against Richie’s chest and hums. The feel of it laces him with some sort of half-courage.

“Have you told anyone else?”

Eddie’s head pops back up. 

“No,” he says, his forehead pinched, “I wanted to tell you how I felt first, and then I thought I would-”

“Hold up, rewind,” Richie says, and their bodies come to a halt. “How you felt- about being divorced?” 

Eddie lets go of his hand and takes a step back. The song is ending, but another slow one picks up where it left off. Just as sappy, too. These queers really need to liven up their set lists. 

“ _No_ ,” Eddie says emphatically, in that tone that means he finds Richie exasperating, but in a fond way, or at least that’s how Richie’s always taken it. “How I feel about _you_.” He punctuates it with a finger jammed into the center of Richie’s chest, and Richie feels a phantom pain in his heart, and haven’t those two things always been connected?

“I’m so lost.” 

“Wait-” Eddie says, eyes wild, then he’s pressing his face into his hands. “Oh my god, do you not- holy _shit_ , Richie.” 

“No, no, I do not,” he says, trying to play catch up with what feels like absolutely no context clues whatsoever. But Eddie looks serious as a heart attack, hands pressing to his hips, staring Richie down like he’s the barrel of a gun. 

“I wasn’t lying- I mean. What you heard me tell Tabby,” he starts, and Richie’s mind finally starts churning. “You’re the reason I realized I was gay.” 

Eddie looks up at him, eyes watery, and Richie swallows. 

“I’m glad I was able to help, Eds, but-”

“No, no, shut up, I keep chickening out and I just need to get this out,” Eddie says, and Richie thinks that sounds pretty good right about now because he’s sick of the Three’s Company shenanigans they’ve found themselves in and he figures clarity is now the only suitable option.

“Go ahead,” Richie says. Eddie stomps his feet like a petulant child.

“I’m fucking- I’m going, okay.” He clenches his fists and stares. “I’m in love with you.”

Richie’s never had less of a response to anything in his entire life. Luckily, Eddie’s not done. 

“Seeing you again in Derry felt weird, and like, familiar, too, but I shook it off because the whole thing was weird. And then you came out,” Eddie says, his voice getting shaky, and Richie wants to reach out and hold him, feeling so stupid, “I know I didn’t take it well, I _know_ that, and I’m sorry. I was a dick, but it stirred up shit in me I didn’t understand, and then we kept talking and every time you brought it up it was like, a, a-”

He mimes a dig at his stomach, like he’s mixing a salad over his abs. 

“It was like my whole life made sense.” 

Well, then. Fuck the salad metaphor. That’s much better.

“Eds-”

Eddie takes a small step toward him. 

“I came here to see if you wanted to maybe-” he’s flicking between them, but Richie wants to hear him say it.

“If I wanted to?” 

“If you wanted to _date_ me, Richie,” Eddie finishes. Richie can tell this is hard for him, his cheeks are puffing when he bites the words out, but Richie’s halfway to Cloud fuckin’ Nine. 

“Oh my god,” he says. The music is still playing, but they’re standing still, the whole situation unraveling between them. 

It was never a game.

“I thought maybe Valentine’s Day would be a nice time to, you know.” Eddie’s biting his lip and toeing at the ground. Richie resumes his position and wraps Eddie up in his arms because otherwise he might float away for good, and he definitely wants to be here for the rest of this conversation. 

“Eddie.” Eddie’s arms cling around him tightly, resting at the small of Richie’s back.

“Is this a yes?” Eddie looks up at him, and Richie is so hopeless in love and comfortable in a room full of queers that he leans down to kiss him without another word. 

*

“Oh my _god_ ,” Eddie gasps into his mouth as they tumble through the door of their suite for the second night in a row, wrists knocking while they both attempt to remove each other’s ties. 

“I don’t-”

“It’s- just- get your hand off-” 

Eddie slaps Richie’s hands away and jerks hard around the knot at his own throat. 

With a moment away from Eddie’s mouth to look, Richie takes it all in hungrily.

“You look so fucking good in this suit, Eds,” he says, pushing Eddie back up against the door as his tie finally pulls free. Eddie groans.

“I bought it for this weekend.” Richie presses his mouth to Eddie’s cheek, then the other, then that line on his forehead, because it’s his favorite, and then back to his lips. 

“You are ridiculous.”

Eddie surges forward to kiss him hard, and Richie feels it deep between them, where their bodies are hugged tight together. Then Eddie pulls back, head thunking against the door.

“Say it again,” he whispers into Richie’s mouth, and since he’s fresh off a dance-floor make-out and finding out his best friend loves him, he almost says _What? You’re ridiculous?_ but then he remembers the look in Eddie’s eyes when he’d said yes, before they had kissed their way out of the party, all giggly and hopped up on each other, when he’d-

“I love you,” he tells Eddie, because he’ll tell him every day from now on, whenever he wants to hear it. Now that it’s out there’s no stopping it, just like the two of them. And _god_ , isn’t that amazing?

Eddie runs a hand down the side of Richie’s face, cupping at his jaw, like he gets it, too. Richie watches him while they slowly kiss, until Eddie slides his hand under Richie’s jacket and pulls. Their hips line up and Richie clenches his eyes closed with a moan, dizzy with knowledge that Eddie’s hard and insistent between them. 

Richie imagines this is _definitely_ where a high school dance would have taken them, had he been allowed to take Eddie at all. Making out behind the bleachers, pressing each other into the seats of cars, rubbing their lips raw from kissing, never able to get enough.

He certainly feels like a teenager right now, his cock jumping to attention at the first sound Eddie makes when they rut together. 

“Fuck, fuck, I haven’t, uh,” Eddie breaks away to lean heavy on the door and wipe a sheen of sweat from his brow. Richie looks between them, their chests pattering in a desperate rhythm, their legs interlocked. “I haven’t done this in a long time, I don’t think I can-”

Richie puts an inch between them, spooked. 

“God, you’re right, it’s too-”

“No, _no_ ,” Eddie says, fingers gripping mean around Richie’s middle to bring him back, “god, stop fucking _leaving_.”

“Okay, baby, what?” Richie asks, sweeping hands down Eddie’s shoulders, over his arms, digging at the points of his hips. God, he’s _beautiful_. Then Eddie jumps in his hold. 

“Fuck, I’m- I can’t _last_ , is what I’m saying, I’m gonna-”

“Oh,” Richie says, and yeah, that makes sense, given that Eddie is currently knocking their hips together in a dirty circle against the door. 

So he drops to his knees. Eddie groans.

“What did I just say, Rich, you think-”

Richie reaches for the zipper on Eddie’s pants and shushes him. 

“Just lemme take the edge off,” he says, kissing at the plaid fabric around Eddie’s crotch. He bites his lip. “Wanted to do this as soon as you walked out of the bathroom.” 

Eddie’s hand finds the back of Richie’s head. His fingers pet gently over Richie’s hair, and Richie feels the cresting emotion, because usually when he says dirty shit with a dick in his hand, guys just respond with some variation of _fuck yeah, suck me off_.

Eddie’s watching him like he can’t look away, eyes fascinated and hungry, but soft in a way that seems like - well. Like he loves Richie. 

Again, much, much better. 

Eddie’s right - once Richie pulls him out, he’s not long for this world. Richie gives him a few careful strokes, wetting the head in his mouth to make the slide easier, and then Eddie’s gripping hard into his hair and blowing straight onto the carpet. At least Richie’s able to shield the pants, because he _definitely_ wants to see Eddie in this get-up again. 

“We didn’t even make it to the bed,” Richie pouts while Eddie’s coming down.

Eddie pants a few times around a laugh, completely dressed, dick hanging out, and Richie stands up to kiss him. 

“I’ll have to return the favor,” Eddie says when they separate, and it’s easy for Richie to ignore the ache in his knees when they go weak. 

*

“You waited for me?” Richie asks, straddling Eddie’s lap, holding onto the headboard while Eddie blushes. As if they’re not both naked as the day they were born. 

As if Richie’s dick isn’t dripping between them, begging for attention.

“I wasn’t _waiting_ , but I, well,” Eddie gulps, finger teasing at Richie’s entrance. “Who would I have-”

They both stop, Eddie right on the edge of being inside. Richie shakes his head and knocks his hand away so they can kiss. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“It’s okay,” Richie tells him, because it doesn’t matter, he just wants Eddie _now_ , and so what if they took the opposite approaches to coming out? Eddie was married, and Richie was trying to fuck the memories back out of his head. But now they’re here, grinding together on the bed, and Richie only wants to look forward. Then Eddie pulls back.

“I looked at stuff, though,” he gasps, wrapping a hand around Richie’s dick and reaching for the lube Richie threw on the bed earlier, “You’ll just have to tell me what you like.” 

“ _Hnnnngghh_ ,” Richie chokes out as Eddie slicks up two fingers and presses one inside. His thighs shake, so he paws at Eddie’s shoulder to keep himself up. 

Eddie shifts his finger in and out. Richie’s hips follow the movements, and soon he’s fucking down toward where Eddie’s soft dick is lying against his thigh. His mouth waters when he sees it, a delicious pink, and he hopes he can get it in his mouth again sometime soon, preferably for longer than a few seconds. 

Eddie’s fingers work him over good, and he’s thrusting up through the circle of Eddie’s other fist and his whole body slams with pleasure. He never really let himself imagine this, but on the occasions it got the better of him, he figured Eddie would be able to take him apart. The real thing is somehow still life-altering. 

“You like this, Rich?” Eddie asks him, reaching forward to mouth at the hair on Richie’s stomach. Richie wonders if his fingers are leaving dents in the wood of the headboard. Let them. Something this good deserves a fucking monument to its memory. 

“Yeah, I love it,” he breathes back. Eddie adds a second finger like a goddamn pro and ups his speed. Richie moans. 

“You look-” Eddie starts, then blinks, hard, “would you let me- not now, but could I-”

“Anything,” Richie gasps. Eddie’s _right_ there, pushing in perfectly, about to set him off, watching Richie bounce on his lap with abandon, and Richie couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed if he tried, and that’s before Eddie asks-

“Would you let me fuck you?” 

And that’s it. Call it a knock-out, Richie Tozier is down for the count. 

“God _damn_ , Eddie,” he chokes out, body bending in on itself as he comes all over Eddie’s hand, his chest, and Eddie gasps as it happens, squeezing at him hard and crooking his fingers inside to draw it out. 

Richie’s a moaning, whining, scrabbly mess by the time he flops beside Eddie on the bed, who immediately gets up to wash his hands and clean himself up. As soon as he crawls back into bed Richie feels a kiss on his hip, then his shoulder, then his cheek. He opens his eyes to Eddie grinning at him, body flushed and hair a mess. 

“I love you,” he says again, just to see Eddie’s eyes go all loopy, because it’s Valentine’s Day, and suddenly Richie wishes he hadn’t swept all the rose petals into the trash bin as soon as they arrived. 

Eddie creeps forward to kiss him gently and Richie shivers. Eddie’s eyes fall to the bedspread, where he swirls a nervous finger. 

“Maybe we should use the tub,” Eddie says, low, “you know, to clean off?” 

Richie lunges toward Eddie in another kiss, pressing a hand to his chest and holding on tight. The heat flows between their bodies, and Richie can feel the air spreading at Eddie’s lungs, can hear the sound of Eddie’s heart beating a little faster than normal in his chest. But Eddie’s here, in his bed, spending the weekend with him, hopefully not for the last time. 

“Start that tap, baby,” Richie says, and Eddie rolls his eyes but hops to it. 

Eddie doesn’t fuck him in the tub, but he does the next morning, spooned across the velvet red sheets, holding Richie tight around the ribs, whispering into his ear until they both come on muffled shouts. 

Richie finally lets himself cry, just a little, just because Eddie’s there to wipe the tears away. 

*

Valentine’s Day isn’t technically until Tuesday, so Eddie makes Richie promise to pick up dinner on him and Face-Time while they both eat on opposite sides of the country. 

Richie’s planning on Face-Timing Eddie every single night until he moves to LA, because _apparently that’s going to happen_ , so he seals their promise easily with a kiss. 

“I’ll call you when I get in,” Eddie’s already saying into his chest as they hug goodbye, “And I’ll fly back out as soon as I can pack up my boxes.” 

Richie nods, holding Eddie’s face in his hands. Eddie keeps talking, and Richie lets him - maybe he’ll sleep on the plane if he exhausts himself. 

“Maybe I can move into the guest room until we figure out how to-”

At that, Richie presses a hand over Eddie’s mouth. 

“There’s no way I’m letting you sleep in the guest room,” Richie tells him. He feels the puff of air from Eddie’s nose against his skin. 

“So forward,” Eddie mumbles when Richie releases him. 

“You were _inside_ me this morning, I’m past being coy.”

Eddie groans and moves to roll out of Richie’s hold. Richie locks his arms so he can’t escape. God, this is going to be _good_. 

“We’ll work it out,” Richie says, noodling a hand down to briefly pinch at Eddie’s ass. Eddie leans back. 

“Are you going to be like this all the time now?” Richie raises his hands, but Eddie still holds him at the hips. 

“Hey, man, you signed up for this.” 

“Okay, okay,” Eddie concedes, pressing in to kiss him, “I’ll talk to you when I land.” 

Richie keeps him there longer than he should, until Eddie’s pushing him away and waving back at him while he heads to security. 

As soon as he’s out of sight, Richie pulls out his phone.

“Hey man, how’d the weekend go?” Stan asks as soon as he picks up. 

Richie laughs, getting in line behind two people at the Cinnabon. 

“You knew, didn’t you?” he asks, and there’s a lengthy silence that proves it. “I cannot _believe_ you, Stan. How long?” 

“How did- hold on a second,” Stan says, then there’s some commotion in the background before Richie hears a beep. He pulls his phone back to see a Face-Time request from Stan. When he opens it, both he and Patty are staring up at him. 

“Richie, tell us what happened!” Patty says, Stan nodding next to her. Richie takes a breath, memory flashing over the balloons, the bed, _Jack_ , the fucking tub, but mostly just Eddie. Even a week apart seems like a lifetime now. 

“Luckily my new place is the perfect size for two people,” he tells them. A few people glance his way when Patty almost blows his speakers with a shriek, but Richie’s always loved her enthusiasm, and he kinda feels like screaming, too. 

“I told him you’d say yes,” Stan says. Richie shakes his head as he approaches the counter.

“More on that later, Staniel, I’m on my way to sugary goodness.” He hangs up to order and sees a few texts from Eddie come in as he waits for his food. 

_Made it to my gate._

Then, a few seconds later.

_Love you. Again._

_Just in case the plane goes down, or something._

He types back, _You can’t trick me anymore, Mr. Red Suit, I know you’re a big romantic_. 

_Maybe,_ Eddie says back, _But just for you._

Richie shoves his phone back in his pocket and eats his Cinnabon in four huge bites because Eddie isn’t here to yell at him. Richie hopes it’s the last time that will be true for awhile. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm [tinyangryeddie](https://tinyangryeddie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [camerasparring](https://twitter.com/camerasparring) on Twitter!


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